The two men said very little to each other. They were never alone together except during that half-hour after dinner in which they were supposed to drink their wine. The old Squire always took three glasses of port during this period, and expected that his grandson would take three with him. But George would drink none at all. “I have given up drinking wine after dinner,” said he, when his grandfather pushed the bottle over to him. “I suppose you mean that you drink nothing but claret,” said the Squire, in a tone of voice that was certainly not conciliatory. “I mean simply what I say,” said George—“that I have given up drinking wine after dinner.” The old man could not openly quarrel with his heir on such a point as that. Even Mr. Vavasor could not tell his grandson that he was going to the dogs because he had become temperate. But, nevertheless, there was offence in it; and when George sat perfectly silent, looking at the fire, evidently determined to make no attempt at conversation, the offence grew, and became strong. “What the devil’s the use of your sitting there if you neither drink nor talk?” said the old man. “No use in the world, that I can see,” said George; “if, however, I were to leave you, you would abuse me for it.” “I don’t care how soon you leave me,” said the Squire. From all which it may be seen that George Vavasor’s visit to the hall of his ancestors was not satisfactory.
On the fourth day, about noon, came Aunt Greenow’s reply. “Dearest Kate,” she said, “I am not going to do what you ask me,”—thus rushing instantly into the middle of her subject.
You see, I don’t know my nephew, and have no reason for being specially anxious that he should be in Parliament. I don’t care two straws about the glory of the Vavasor family. If I had never done anything for myself, the Vavasors would have done very little for me. I don’t care much about what you call “blood.” I like those who like me, and whom I know. I am very fond of you, and because you have been good to me I would give you a thousand pounds if you wanted it for yourself; but I don’t see why I am to give my money to those I don’t know. If it is necessary to tell my nephew of this, pray tell him that I mean no offence.
Your friend C. is still waiting—waiting—waiting, patiently; but his patience may be exhausted.
“Of course she won’t,” said George, as he threw back the letter to his sister. “Why should she?”
“I had hoped she would,” said Kate.
“Why should she? What did I ever do for her? She is a sensible woman. Who is your friend C., and why is he waiting patiently?”
“He is a man who would be glad to marry her for her money, if she would take him.”
“Then what does she mean by his patience being exhausted?”
“It is her folly. She chooses to pretend to think that the man is a lover of mine.”
“Has he got any money?”
“Yes; lots of money—or money’s worth.”
“And what is his name?”
“His name is Cheesacre. But pray don’t trouble yourself to talk about him.”
“If he wants to marry you, and has plenty of money, why shouldn’t you take him?”
“Good heavens, George! In the first place he does not want to marry me. In the next place all his heart is in his farmyard.”
“And a very good place to have it,” said George.
“Undoubtedly. But, really, you must not trouble yourself to talk about him.”
“Only this—that I should be very glad to see you well married.”
“Should you?” said she, thinking of her close attachment to himself.
“And now, about the money,” said George. “You must write to Alice at once.”—“Oh, George!”
“Of course you must; you have promised. Indeed, it would have been much wiser if you had taken me at my word, and done it at once.”—“I cannot do it.”
Then the scar on his face opened itself, and his sister stood before him in fear and trembling. “Do you mean to tell me,” said he, “that you will go back from your word, and deceive me;—that after having kept me here by this promise, you will not do what you have said you would do?”
“Take my money now, and pay me out of hers as soon as you are married. I will be the first to claim it from her—and from you.”
“That is nonsense.”
“Why should it be nonsense? Surely you need have no scruple with me. I should have none with you if I wanted assistance.”
“Look here, Kate; I won’t have it, and there’s an end of it. All that you have in the world would not pull me through this election, and therefore such a loan would be worse than useless.”
“And am I to ask her for more than two thousand pounds?”
“You are to ask her simply for one thousand. That is what I want, and must have, at present. And she knows that I want it, and that she is to supply it; only she does not know that my need is so immediate. That you must explain to her.”
“I would sooner burn my hand, George!”
“But burning your hand, unfortunately, won’t do any good. Look here, Kate; I insist upon your doing this for me. If you do not, I shall do it, of course, myself; but I shall regard your refusal as an unjustifiable falsehood on your part, and shall certainly not see you afterwards. I do not wish, for reasons which you may well understand, to write to Alice myself on any subject at present. I now claim your promise to do so; and if you refuse, I shall know very well what to do.”
Of course she
